


next to you

by dontstraytoofar



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Flashbacks, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontstraytoofar/pseuds/dontstraytoofar
Summary: A world without Frankie isn’t bright or happy orfull. It’s just a world.





	1. 1. Brianna

**Author's Note:**

> I know, heavy right? But bear with me. Yes, major character death; but future chapters will also consist of a tonne of flashbacks. To admitting feelings, to falling in love, to Frankie falling ill, to the notes she leaves through her loved ones to Grace, to basically everything. This was so hard to write, but I hope you all fall in love with the characters like I have regardless! 
> 
> Feedback is very very welcome, let me know if I should continue this! x Enjoy. 
> 
> Lyrics from "Malibu" - Miley Cyrus

 

 _I never came to the beach or stood by the ocean_  
_I never sat by the shore under the sun with my feet in the sand_  
_But you brought me here and I'm happy that you did_  
_'Cause now I'm as free as birds catching the wind_

 

 

-

 

It goes like this.

Frankie dies on a Friday.

Sometimes, when Grace isn’t in yesterday’s pyjamas and her kitchen isn’t littered with empty Grey Goose bottles; she’ll think about how fucking _normal_ a Friday is. As if losing Frankie on the day everyone wishes for at the start of the week is _normal_ and as if losing Frankie at all is something that was inevitable. It’s these days, these hopeless Fridays, that Grace wishes she was dead too.

A world without Frankie isn’t bright or happy or _full._ It’s just a world.

(Grace hates Fridays. Grace hates the world)

 

-

 

 

The first two weeks, Grace blames Sol.

It’s easy, for her to detach and to scream and for her to drive to Sol and Robert’s house drunk and slur that if they just kept it in their pants, none of this would have happened. Fuck, it’s unfair, to stare into Sol’s empty sad eyes and shout words she _knows_ she doesn’t mean. Robert closes his eyes and grits his teeth in rage; Sol just stands there. Mute and letting the words hit his chest.

Grace can’t _breathe,_ there’s tears rolling down her cheeks and her legs are weak with the weight of her seventh martini. She can’t stop the words.

She doesn’t know if she wants to.

 “ _God,_ you both are the reason” Grace says it as if a revelation, scoffing and swaying on her feet. “If you hadn’t cheated and lied and _deceived_ I would have _never_ grown to know her.”

Robert sighs, Sol looks like Grace is holding his heart, squeezing it with her very hands. Grace takes a breath, she tries to stop her heart hammering and breaking and thinking of Frankie’s voice saying _“Jesus Grace, pull it together. Oh also, have you seen my vibrating turtle toothbrush?”_

 “Fuck you both. Fuck you both for letting me love her”

Grace can taste her tears, feels how hot her face is. It’s only when Robert says “Come on Grace. Let’s take you home” does she remember that she hasn’t felt anything but anger in two weeks. And she’s scared, scared that only with Frankie is when she _felt_ things. Things she thought she’d never feel again. It makes her angry, so fucking angry.

Because her soulmate died on a Friday.

And by extension, Grace died a little bit too.

 

 

-

 

 

It was the strokes.

They _knew_ it was a possibility. Something near but far and unthinkable. Grace did her best to never entertain the idea, that they’d come back and in full force; she remembers Frankie talking about the next one being “fatal” and “life threatening” Then Grace watched what she ate, rolled her eyes when she found Frankie’s hidden stash of pretzels; dealt with the fall out of Frankie finding them in the bin and revelling in the makeup kisses that followed.

 “Grace, pretzels give me _sustenance._ See these?” She holds to the loose skin of her bicep from old age, waggling it in Grace’s face making her groan. “These are the fruits of misuse”

 “Yeah so is your brain. _No. Pretzels_ ”

And Frankie would wave her away, sit down with a bowel of Special K, mumbling into the cereal “You’re lucky I love you” as if Grace couldn’t hear a word. She always did, it made Grace smile into her coffee cup. It always filled her heart to the brim.

(When Grace is up until 3 am not sleeping, she’ll sit at the kitchen bar, remember how warm it was with their love. She butters some burnt toast with Frankie’s yam lube, clutching to the last of Frankie that lingers; resigning to the fact that she’ll never be okay)

 

 

-

 

Sol is different. More silent than he ever was, but Grace notices how he leans more heavily on Robert; he _has_ someone. Someone to love wholeheartedly; somehow Grace knows he’ll be okay. Coyote still has his mini house on wheels; he asked a week ago if he could have his mother’s favourite lawn chair; he has no lawn to use it on, but the thought that it was _hers_ must be a comfort that lets him march on. Smile when the sun hits his skin when he remembers how Frankie took the family on Summer holidays when he was little, fills him with a sense that she’s okay wherever she is.

Nwabudike visits, talks to Grace about anything and everything. And as much as she’s grateful for him, he reminds her _so_ much of Frankie, to his smile, to his laugh; it’s _a lot._ Bud has this light, a light Frankie seemed to have passed to him and Coyote. And as much as Coyote has the same shine, it seems Bud’s shines brighter. As if Coyote was content holding this light to his heart, but Bud wanted it to be shared.

Grace can tell though, Brianna is hit the hardest.

They have brunches, when Grace isn’t insomnia driven and tired, existing on three coffees and mixed nuts, Brianna comes over with healthy snacks and her best dead pan: “Jesus mom, you smell like a frat party”

They’re on the back porch of the beach house with the sun setting when Grace realises just how Brianna _really_ is. Grace leans back, holding to her glass of water, letting the ocean air fall over her skin and remind her of the smell of Frankie’s hair; she looks to her daughter’s face, she sees how _broken_ she looks.

 “How’re you doing? You feeling okay?”

Grace has never heard her voice so warm; she wonders if it’s Frankie holding to her elbow whispering: _give her a break. She’s your daughter and inherited your genes of shutting off when feelings are involved._ Grace feels a pang in her chest, instead of acknowledging it, she watches Brianna’s face for an answer.

Her eldest daughter raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of her vodka soda and softly scoffing. Yet her eyes are guarded, as if even speaking of anything to do with Frankie is one more moment to a flood of tears she’ll never be able to stop.

 “In relation to what exactly?”

 “Brianna-“

 “What? That I haven’t said anything since she died?”

Grace closes her eyes; swallows and tries to ignore how the word sits in her lungs and constricts her breathing. Brianna seems to notice her words, how harsh they seemed, and sighs as she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I’m just,” She gestures between the both of them, and Grace tilts her head in question as Brianna sighs. “Bad at this”

Grace lets out a short laugh, crossing one knee over the other. She wishes Frankie were here, maybe they’d get high and forget even existing. “What, feelings?”

Brianna deflates in her chair, and sits her glass on the porch, both women looking out to the ocean. “Yeah, I guess”

The conversation is quiet for a time, each woman sitting in silence as the ocean waves crash. Five minutes’ pass until Brianna speaks, sighing into the warm Summer air and watching the clouds move softly over the setting sun.

 “I don’t want this to seem horrible, or malicious mom, but-“ And Grace knows what’s coming, she knows it cause she used to _see_ it. At family gatherings, at parties, when Frankie and Brianna bonded over rain puddles and Spring park benches.

 “Sometimes she felt like more of a mother than you. Like…my emotional mom. You know?”

Grace breathes out, shaky and uneven, she wants to sob; to cry and scream and say that it isn’t fair. That it isn’t fair Frankie’s _gone._ Instead, she nods to Brianna’s words, and the younger woman seems to deflate in relief that a storm wasn’t created from her words. She hears her mother shift slightly, and her voice rings out into the night.

 “You know, I loved her”

Brianna furrows her brows, looking to her mother as the older woman plays with a loose thread of her shirt.

 “Of course you did mom. We all did”

Grace sighs, laughing a little, and it’s only then Brianna notices the tears at the edge of her vision. Brianna’s breath hitches the slightest amount, she’s never seen her mom cry; she’s not even sure she cried at the news of Frankie. She just…broke. Went quiet. Locked herself in the beach house for days. Maybe she _did_ cry, maybe she cried so hard she’ll never cry again.

(This is the first time in 28 years Brianna has seen Grace so _open)_

“No, I _loved_ her Bree.”

 “ _Yyyeah_ I got that the first time”

Grace rolls her eyes, throwing her hands up at her confused daughters face. “Jesus do I have to spell it out for you?”

 “Woah okay mom, I thought you just meant-“

 “We were in love!”

The air stills, Brianna’s mouth is open, and Grace’s chest heaves. Brianna blinks once, eyebrows drawn in, and watches as her mother gives up from the quiet conversation and stands up. Holding to her elbows – looking out into the sea.

 “I know you’re hurting, believe me, I do.” Her hair gently moves in the cool breeze, Brianna looks up to her mother, and she’s _beautiful._ “I’m sorry we didn’t…tell you. When she was alive. It’s my biggest regret”

Before Brianna can open her mouth, tell her mom that _it’s okay. Really. I love you, I’m in shock holy shit, but I love you_ Grace has already turned around – her back to the ocean, the glass doors to the porch sliding shut quietly. And Brianna is left with the waves, two blankets, and this lingering sense that somehow; the hole in her heart will never be filled.

 

 

-

 

 

Malerie sometimes brings it up; they’ll be laughing at dinner and Sol will say how he misses this. How they should get together as a family more, speak more, _do_ more. In these moments, Malerie chuckles and smiles, moving her vegetables around her plate with her fork, and Grace listens to how her youngest daughter forlornly says: “Frankie was always kinda our mediator”

The table goes quiet, Bud squeezes Maleries hand as she looks to Grace apologetically. Well, they _all_ look to Grace. And Grace herself? She breathes in, remembers how Frankie did exercises with her to calm down the anxiety that constricted her heart in moments like this, and lets her shoulders sag.

 “Jesus do I have the plague or something?”

It’s been four months. It still burns like yesterday.

Malerie shoves more vegetables around her plate, winces and frowns to Brianna from the shin kick she receives.

And dinner goes on, like the waves against the shore.

 

 

 

-

 

  _“Hey mom? Do we still have some of Frankie’s pot left?”_

Grace frowns into her tea, her phone pressed against her shoulder and ear as she frowns at Brianna’s question. The sun is hitting the kitchen table, she remembers how Frankie would move her plants to that exact spot in Winter, when the sun shone less and clouds filled the sky.

Grace takes another sip of her tea.

 “And you needed to know this at-“ She pulls the phone away, checking the time. “Half past seven?”

  _“Mom. Birth giver. Oh mother of mine-“_

“Spit it”

She can practically hear the eye roll over the phone, and Brianna’s voice comes out next with a careful tone, much softer than usual. It makes Grace frown harder.

  _“I just, well I found something today”_

Grace rinses her mug, leaning against the counter with her arms folded, staring at the sun spot. “And this involves pot how?”

 " _Wellll. Frankie, she well, she gave me something. Before, you know”_

Grace stands upright, she’s surprised she doesn’t drop the phone. “She what?”

  _“Trust me, I’ve wanted to tell you for months. But Frankie made me promise to leave it until today“_

Brianna’s voice sounds sheepish, and Grace doesn’t actually know what to _say._ Let alone do. One, she feels slightly betrayed; by Frankie or Brianna she’s not sure. But just _knowing,_ knowing there’s still a bit of Frankie left besides the smell of her hair on Grace’s bedsheets and her unrolled joints in the bathroom, it fills Grace’s heart with this weight. This _heartbreaking_ weight.

And she’s still staring at the spot of sun on the table top, her eyes raking up to the fridge. To the calendar that is pinned against it, the circled date that’s been so thoroughly circled its almost black with ink. Grace breathes out with a smile and shake of her head, it all dawning on her; she can practically hear Frankie giggling with glee and clapping her hands.

 “You sly bitch”

  _“I’m sorry what now?”_

“It’s our fucking anniversary today. She told you to get me to smoke my first joint, didn’t’ she?”

The other end is silent, Brianna open mouthed as she breathes into the phone. _“That’s either scary you know that, or adorable you knew Frankie so well”_

Grace lets her smile soften as she chuckles at Brianna’s words. “Yes well, Frankie was good at that”

  _“In smoking pot?”_

“No” Grace touches the calendar, outlining the date with her finger. Smiling. “In knowing how to make me laugh. Jesus…even in death”

 

 

-


	2. 2. Coyote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the reviews! They were all so wonderful to read xx 
> 
> Sorry for the shorter chap, but I hope you all still enjoy!

 

 

They schedule the pot smoking for the weekend, and Grace must resign to a fact that makes her toss and turn nearly the entire night.

She hasn’t opened Frankie’s art studio in months now, the same studio that holds a little cardboard shoebox that says _“Frankie’s_ othe _r sacred box_ ” in her scribbly writing, holding her emergency marijuana. Grace can see it plain in her mind, everything of Frankie’s is as if it’s been glued there, tattooed to the underside of her memory. The door is decidedly shut and the windows closed, the only thing that’s seen Frankie’s lingering art is the sunlight that filters through, and Grace _knows,_ without a doubt, it’s going to shove the knife that sits in her heart ever deeper when she unlocks the lock; breathing in the air.

And _oh,_ it smells like her.

(Grace feels tears immediately spring to her eyes, she turns around, slams the door shut, leans against it as if her legs refused to move)

 “Jesus Christ”

_She can’t do this, she can’t do this, she can’t do this._

“Fucks sake, Grace don’t be such a pussy, it’s just a room. Didn’t we have sex on that couch one time?”

Grace snaps her eyes open, her chest heaving as her anxiety creeps back like a shadow, and she _swears_ it; that Frankie just spoke. As if she was holding her hand and smiling, rolling her eyes making Grace fall again. But all she sees when she opens her eyes is the side of their house, Frankie’s broken paintbrushes that are still hung up like a wind chime, and her blurry vision, masked by tears.

The sun beats down, and Grace slips down the door, drawing her knees up and crying until her shoulders ache.

 

 

-

 

 

 

When she finally picks herself up from the ground, the sun is setting and no light seems to bleed into Frankie’s studio anymore. Grace breathes in and closes her eyes, reaching for the doorknob; whispering “Here goes nothing” as the heavy wooden door swings open, musky air hitting her senses, her hand blindly looking for the light.

For the second time, it’s less as daunting.

Doesn’t make it any less _overwhelming._

Frankie’s flannel splattered with paint is still slung on the couch, paintings in various stages of completion sitting in almost halfhazardly thrown places. And although Grace is holding to her elbows, eyes flicking around the room as her heart hammers, the only thing that seems to _stick_ is a painting in the centre. Familiar, colourful and well… _Grace._

It’s the painting of her, devil fangs, half drunk martini and all. And Grace, she can’t help but blink; willing her tears to dry. It hurts, Jesus it hurts. Anger bubbles up again, and Grace tries to breathe, she tries to _stop_ the emotion but it sticks and it prods and it _demands_ to be felt as if its Frankie’s fault; as if its her fault she’s _gone_ and Grace can’t take it anymore.

Fuck, she _can’t._ It’s selfish, it’s so so selfish but this pain cripples her ability to hold the words in.

(She wants to rip the painting down, she wants it all gone and out and away from her because Frankie is _everywhere)_  

 “Why did you leave!?”

Grace screams it in the middle of the room, nails digging into the side of her arms, and her lips tremble from the weight of holding it all in. Pretending that she’s _fine_ that Frankie’s gone. Pretending she can be okay with not seeing Frankie’s hat in the sink, the overflowing dishwasher, half cracked open nuts on the table and sand footprints on the back porch.

 “What g-gives you the right?” Grace says it into the empty room, as if Frankie’s understanding eyes were right there. She’s crying now, tears falling steadily down her cheek. She doesn’t bother wiping them, she just holds tighter to her elbows, her frame so small compared to the room around her. “You were supposed to be _here_ when I did this; you _promised.”_

(She wants to lie down on the couch, Grace never wants to wake up again)

Instead, Grace trembles for a few more minutes in the middle of the room, arms so tight around herself she’s worried she’ll just sink into herself. She grabs Frankie’s box with shaking hands, and on her way out, she throws Frankie’s flannel over the painting, dust settling into the air like glitter.

 

 

-

 

(“You know, I thought this’d be fun…but Frankie’s not here though." Brianna frowns, almost pouts, and takes a sip of her drink. "Mom? I wish Frankie was here”

 

Brianna frowns into the oceans waves, feeling her mother’s head thump against her shoulder and a sigh leave her lips. The sky sways and the clouds melt as Grace breathes in another hit. “Me too Bree”

 

Brianna rests her cheek on the top of her head, Grace feels a little more balanced after that)

 

 

-

 

 “Happy Mother’s Day!”

Grace groans as she waves her arms in the vicinity of… _Coyotes?_ voice. Brianna moaning from her position opposite from Grace on the couch.

 “Who _yells_ this early?”

Coyote stands there, flowers in his hands, scratching his head. “It’s 1:30pm Brianna”

 “Exactly”

Grace finally opens her eyes, an empty vodka bottle and half smoked joints meet her gaze from her position on her stomach, staring at the table top. Jesus, if Frankie could see her now. She’d probably throw a pillow at her, _or_ be one of the idiots who drank alcohol before smoking weed.  

 

 “ _Remember babe, weed before beer you’re in the clear, beer before grass you’re on your ass”_

_“Do you listen to yourself sometimes?”_

_“Always. What else besides my sexy raspy voice do you love me for? My amazing good looks?”_

_“Oh yeah that’s it. How could I forget Frankie”_

 

She’s brought out of her memories when Coyote clears his throat, the noise making Grace groan again. “What the hell are you doing with flowers? And how did you get in my house?”

Coyote frowns, opening his mouth and rocking on his feet. “Happy Mother’s day?”

Brianna blinks once, leaning up with her hand and dead panning. “I’m lucid dreaming. I’m lucid dreaming, aren’t I?”

Grace rolls her eyes, flicking the blanket wrapped around her legs off as she accidentally kicks Brianna in the process, making her frown. She stands up on unsteady feet, splaying her arms out as Coyote moves to help. Grace just looks at him, he gets the message. “It’s 11th of March Coyote, you’re a little early for Mother-oh”

And even in her foggy mind, Grace puts the pieces together.

Of _course,_ of course it circles back to Frankie.

 

 

~

 

 

 

_“Grace? Wake up! It’s 6 am and I love you”_

_Grace groans, shoving her pillow over her head as she feels Frankie straddle her back. Tapping her shoulder blades and humming to a song that closely resembles Escape by Rupert Holmes. Honestly, she wonders how she ever came to loving Frankie so much._

_(_ _Then Frankie says: “I made eggs and fetta with a side of black coffee. Although, I think I burnt it, but still! It’s edible and that’s all that matters” and Grace remembers why)_

_“It’s neither my birthday nor our anniversary OR spelling bee day,” Grace throws the pillow to the other side of the room, mumbling into the mattress. “What has you making me breakfast in bed and kissing my back?”_

_Frankie leaves on last peck on Grace’s back, smiling as she drums her fingers and sits up. Shit, that position_ hurt. _And Grace feels like she could melt into her bed, even though it_ is _6 am. “It’s Mother’s Day! And I know Brianna and Malerie are out of town soooo,” and Grace feels Frankie shift, so she’s no longer straddling her but leaning on her side, smiling to Grace making Grace herself roll her eyes fondly._

_“I thought I’d compensate! Although, I vastly underestimated the amount of bees that would accumulate in our kitchen-“  
  
_ _“Bees!?”_

_Frankie’s thoughtful look turns into a smile at Grace’s outburst. “For the flowers of course!”_

_Grace spends Mother’s Day with 100 bouquets of flowers in her kitchen, Frankie talking about the dying bee population and how’re they’re now technically saving them ALL, and burnt coffee with fetta cheese._

_She’s okay with that. She’s a little in love._

 

-

 

“…so then Mom gave me a note in the hospital saying _specifically_ to hand deliver any type of flower to you on Mother’s Day, but then I got America’s Mother’s day date mixed with England’s date - don’t ask how- so here I am!”

Coyote thrusts the flowers out, Brianna stares at him as if he single handly did both a cartwheel and handstand at the same time, and Grace simply shakes her head from the fog of her memory – running a hand through her hair as she smiles. His grin looks like Frankie’s, Grace’s heart sinks.

 “Well…thank you Coyote, really I-“

 “How the fuck did you get England and American dates mixed up?”

Grace sighs and rolls her eyes at Brianna with a smile, watching how Coyote shrugs his shoulders; eyes wide. And it hits Grace like a train, full steam ahead with no breaks applied, just _what_ Frankie is doing. (Has done? Trying to do?) She looks to Brianna, how her daughter is sinking into the couch groaning as Coyote explains, Grace feels it in the way Coyote put it upon himself to rest the flowers in a vase, mumbling how he’s going to fit the other 99 in vases like that.

Frankie’s reminding her of love, _showing_ her the love she still has around her, even though she herself is gone.

When she walks to the kitchen sink, Coyote and Brianna still bickering, Grace let’s her chest deflate. She plays with her necklace around her neck, wondering how Frankie could ever think the love she gave Grace wasn’t enough.

Or maybe that’s not it. Maybe that’s not it at all.

Maybe Frankie wanted to give her flowers, maybe Frankie wanted to hum the Pina Colada song and dance with Grace again while they fell in love. The 100 bouquets of flowers make Grace tilt her head to the ceiling, blinking back tears; they surround her, engulf her, like Frankie still does.

 

-


End file.
